


You're Golden

by supersoakerx



Category: Paterson (2016)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Squirting, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22830238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersoakerx/pseuds/supersoakerx
Summary: A good ole finger bang but, Paterson style.
Relationships: Paterson (Paterson)/Reader, Paterson (Paterson)/You, Paterson/Reader, Paterson/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	You're Golden

He starts, awake – barely – his arms all wrapped up in you. His clothed chest pressed up against your back. Your naked back, he realises. Swiftly, Paterson checks his watch. It’s early, 5 past 6. He’s got time. He shifts to get closer to you, squeezes you and gently pulls you towards him. Your eyes flutter open, the soft, early morning light greeting them, and the warmth of his body heating you up from the inside. He presses lingering kisses to your bare shoulder and you lean back into him.

“Good morning,” you hum, voice all croaky with sleep, his long, lazy kisses stirring you up.

“Good morning, angel.” His morning voice was something else, even deeper, huskier, low and quiet, his voice only for you. His mouth trails kisses across your shoulder blade, down your back, a gentle warmth spreading through you, radiating out from his kisses and landing between your legs.

“What time is it?” It has to be early, you think, the sun is only just peeking through the curtains. Paterson’s mouth kisses back up your side, his fingers grazing up and down your arm. He’s so gentle in the morning, but he’s starting something he can’t finish, not on a week day, and he didn’t answer you about the time, either. You groan. “Baby, you don’t want to be la-“

“I won’t be,” he cuts you off too quickly, and then slowly, he speaks into your skin, “I won’t be late.” He places his hand on your shoulder, presses just slightly back towards him, urging you to roll you onto your back. You shift, getting comfortable on your back, half pressed into him. “I promise,” he’s staring down at you now, his soft hair falling into his face, and you run your hands through it to look into his eyes, cradling his face. He takes your breath away.

“You look beautiful,” you whisper, and his mouth breaks into a toothy smile, huffing out a small laugh.

“I just woke up, honey,” he looks down, bashful, and wraps a hand around one of your wrists. 

“I know.” You’re looking at him intently now, trying to catch his eyes, trying to make sure he heard you, really heard you.

His gaze flicks back up to you, and his eyes are dark. Gripping your wrist, he pulls your hand to his lips and kisses your fingertips, light little pecks. He kisses your wrist, and places a little kitten lick to the veins there. “You look like the sun to me,” he says, staring into your eyes, hooking a finger into the sheet covering your body and pulling it down to slowly uncover your breasts. “You are the sun to me. You light up my whole world. You’re golden.”  
You take a deep breath in at his words, and whisper his name. His eyes haven’t left yours, even though he’s tugged the blanket down to your waist, grabs and grips your flesh. His eyes are searching yours now, his eyebrows just slightly lifted and pulled together, lips set in just the tiniest pout, as if he wants to know, he needs to know, can he touch you, can he make you feel good, will you let him, please?

You reach up a hand to grip the hair at the nape of his neck, and pull him down towards you, your lips meeting in a soft and gentle kiss. But he lingers, he’s insistent, and he takes a deep breath in through his nose and kisses you harder, putting his weight behind it, crushing you into the mattress and he hears it, what he’s been waiting for. You moan into his kiss.

He pulls away, resting his weight on one arm. He’s got you now, he’s sure of it. Your hand rests on his cheek and he hopes, he desperately hopes you’ll let him, let him feel you from the inside. He’s searching your eyes, your face, for any sign. Please.

And then. You nod.

After all, you don’t want him to be late.

Paterson is on you instantly. He bows his head to kiss and lick and lave at one of your nipples, sucking it into his mouth, while his free hand grasps your other breast, running the pads of his fingers around and over the hardening peak.

Your back arches off the bed, pushing your chest into his mouth and his hand. He groans around your nipple, a low and deep “mmmm” sending ripples of pleasure straight through you. He pulls off with a wet pop, and immediately takes your other nipple into his mouth, laving and licking and flicking with his tongue.

“Oh, yes,” you moan, running your fingers through his hair. His mouth feels incredible on you, sending jolts of pleasure to your clit, “yes, baby, you’re so good.”

He licks a stripe up your hard nipple, and plants big wet kisses all over the soft and sensitive skin of your breast, groaning and rambling nonsense in between, saying “Honey I just – just want – want to be – good – for you – want to be – so good – you taste – mmmazing – mmm”

The pressure was building right in the very core of you. You needed him to touch you and you needed it now. Your hands gripped his hair and tugged, and he looked up at you from underneath his lashes, his lips all pink and shiny with his own spit. He was getting sloppy.

“Paterson.” Your voice is firm. He blinks, swallows. “Be good for me, baby.”

And he does.

He skims his big warm hand down your chest, down your soft tummy, the sheet catching on his wrist and exposing more of your skin as he trails down. His fingers, ever so slightly trembling, come to rest just above your most sensitive bundle of nerves. Looking into your eyes, earnest and honest and sweet, he says, “Will you tell me, honey? Will you tell me when I’m being good?”

“Yes, baby, I will,” you nod, running your fingers through his hair gently, your nails just grazing over his scalp, sending a shudder up his spine. He needs this just as much as you do. Your other hand grips his wrist, his hand poised just above where you needed it most, and you push down. “I will, baby, I-oh!”

You moan when his middle finger connects with your clit, and he gasps, looking down your tummy at your core, where his finger absently strokes your clit up and down. “Oh honey, you’re so wet… you’re soaked,” he sounds almost in awe, and his strokes are slow and languid because of it. Oh no, you can’t have that. Not now. You buck your hips up into his hand.

“Play with me later, baby, make me come now,” you huff out at him. Paterson hums and rubs big, hard, slow circles over your clit, and you gush, wetness seeping from you obscenely. His mouth finds yours, and its urgent, and he’s swallowing your moans like they’re keeping him alive.

“Let me go inside, honey?” he breaths onto your open, panting mouth.

“Yes,” you gasp, “Yes, Paterson.”

And it’s one of your most favourite things. He dips his thick, long middle finger into your tight, wet heat and you clamp down on him. He’s watching your face, watching the way your brows pinch together, your eyes go half-lidded, and your mouth drops open. His eyes flit over your face, trying to take it all in, and his plush pink lips part in a small “o”.

“Mmm, yes,” you hum, “more, Paterson, you’re doing so good, baby, more.” His breath hitches.

He drags his single finger out, just the tip of his finger resting at your entrance, and slides back into you with two.  
Your whole body undulates against him with the pleasure of it, and he doesn’t know where to look. He’s searching out your face, the rapid rise and fall of your breasts and tummy, your swollen clit. He wishes he was laying between your legs, on his belly, watching your lips part for him as you slick up his fingers.

But he can feel it, feel you clenching and squeezing on him, and he wants to stroke his cock so badly, he’s so hard, and he’s leaking onto his plaid boxers. But this isn’t about him, so he resists. He’s going to make you fall apart on his fingers. He speeds up the pace of his fingers in and out of your pussy, elated when he hears the wet squelching sound of just so much of your slick.

He doesn’t know what comes over him when he says, “You’ve got such a juicy pussy baby, juicy like a peach-God, I love this pussy, honey, fuck. You’re dripping all over-my sweet little peach is close isn’t she?” He leans in, nuzzles in to your ear, “You’re close, aren’t you honey, I can feel it.”

Words fail you, it’s all you can do to nod, sigh, pant and moan. A peach? The fucking sun, too? Fuck, you’re gushing again, making a little puddle just underneath you.

“Oh, fuck, baby yes, you’re so tight and wet on me, honey,” he speaks lowly, a growl almost, hot breath fanning across your face, his voice laced with desire. You’re moaning and panting, your fingers fisting into his hair. He peels his eyes away from yours and settles them between your legs.

“Yes, Pat-oh, you’re doing so good, make me cum baby, rub my clit and make me cum.” You’re gasping, moaning out every other word, and he feels like he might die if he doesn’t bring you off soon.

He tucks his face back up next to your ear, and breathes out to you, “I want to hear you when I make you cum, honey, please, let me hear your pretty sounds.” He rubs the pads of his fingers against that special little spot inside you, flexes his hand and thumbs at your clit, and it’s too much, it’s all too much, and you scream.

You scream and wail and cry as you soak yourself, soak his fingers, soak the sheets. You’re coming and coming and it feels like it won’t stop. Paterson keeps his fingers moving, drawing you out, until you’re twitching and whimpering and can’t take it anymore.

When your breathing settles, Paterson slowly, gently, draws his fingers out from you. You gasp, oversensitive, and sigh when he brings his fingers up to his mouth to taste your essence, his eyes locked on yours.

“Mmm,” he pulls his fingers out with a pop, “just like a peach.” And you blush, after all of this, everything, your face heats up and you look away from him, embarrassed.

He loves seeing you flushed and shy, it makes his heart burst. He rests his wet, sticky hand on your belly, pulls his supporting arm from under him and brushes some stray hairs out of your face. He kisses away the sweat on your hairline, and licks his lips, humming. Sunlight filters into the room, and he swears you’re glowing.

“What?”

He smiles. “You’re golden. And sweet. Just like a peach.”


End file.
